


it kills what it intends to create

by Skyuni123



Category: The Brokenwood Mysteries
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, Pain, Recovery, Rescue, Whump, sam and kristen are ride or die, they're just shit at expressing it, this is not a fun story wooooo
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-15
Updated: 2018-11-25
Packaged: 2019-05-07 06:04:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14664825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skyuni123/pseuds/Skyuni123
Summary: Sometimes cases go wrong.Recovery takes a long, long time.-inspired by this piece that I wrote for brokenwood fic week this year.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is not a fun story. There will be graphic things happening in later chapters. I will warn for each chapter, but still, keep an eye out!

A series of bad decisions led them here. Too much wine at the Christmas party, a spelling mistake on a report, a bad-timed callout…

 

It could have been anything.

 

But now, they're held at gunpoint by a mad-man, and Kristen doesn't know how they're going to get out of it.

 

She's tried everything she knows. Police training only goes so far in these kind of situations and she's exhausted  _ everything. _

 

Breen seems to be reaching the end of his rope too. He speaks, voice tinged with desperation, trying to get the man to lower his weapon, to let them live, anything.

 

The gunman doesn't seem to want anything, though. That's the problem. They usually want something. Free passage, money, whatever.

 

But all this man wants is to prolong their suffering. He wants to make them  _ bleed. _

 

Over the sound of her heart pounding in her ears, Kristen hardly hears it when a team of armed cops storm the room and end the standoff.

 

They're safe. For now.

  
  


The back of an ambulance is where Mike finds them, wrapped in emergency blankets with cups of tea that Mrs Marlowe had turned up with after the violence had ended. It's rosehip, so it's WAY too floral for Kristen's tastes, but she drinks it all the same.

 

“You two did good work in there.” He says, in way of welcome. 

 

“You had excellent timing, Senior.” Breen replies, entirely immersed in his tea. 

 

“Even so.” Mike isn't uncomfortable, not really, he's a pretty empathetic man on a whole, but he's not wonderful at compliments. “Go home. Get some sleep. I'm proud of you both.”

  
  


But Kristin can't sleep. How can she? After the evening she’s had? 

 

She tosses and turns for an hour or so before she grabs her phone off the side table and squints at the time.

 

_ 2.35am. _

 

Damn.

 

The text message she sends to Breen isn't entirely out of desperation but she regrets it almost immediately. It sounds like a pickup line.

 

_ K: You up? _

 

He replies in a matter of seconds.

 

_ S: No. _

 

Yeah, right. 

 

_ K: You're texting from your sleep then, I take it? _

 

_ S: Wish I was. _

 

_ K: Same. _

 

_ S: Wanna get pissed and not talk about it? _

 

_ K: We have work tomorrow. _

 

_ S: Mike gave us the day off which you would have realised if you hadn't been paying quite so much attention to that DISGUSTING tea. _

 

_ K: Yours or mine? _

 

_ S: Yours cause I'm literally in the car right now. Don't get up. _

 

Arse.

 

Even so, she can't help but feel a little bit flattered. They know each other so well now.

 

She gets up, puts on a robe, and pads out to the kitchen in bare feet. It's cold, the raw edge of winter just beginning to descend upon them, so she switches the jug on for tea as well.

 

Coffee doesn't seem like a good idea, for many, many reasons.

 

Breen arrives within a few minutes, and lets himself in when he does. This is not the first time this has ever happened.

 

Being held at gunpoint isn't something you ever really get over.

 

He's wearing a threadbare Star Wars hoodie and trackpants, thick dark circles hanging heavy under his eyes, and ginger mop all over the place. 

 

“You look terrible.” Kristen says, bluntly, and hands him a mug of fruit tea. He hands her a bottle of wine in return, but she doesn't crack it open. While the lure of drinking to forget is a good one, she doesn't think she should.

 

“You look worse.” He says, even more bluntly, and takes the tea over to her couch. “I wasn't aware this was a beauty pageant, Kristen.”

 

“If it was a beauty pageant, we would have less of a chance of getting shot.”

“True that.” Breen sinks into the couch with a sigh. “I feel like shit.” 

 

“Me too.” She sits down next to him, and clinks their mugs together. “Congratulations on not being dead.”

 

“Same to you, Kris.”

 

They both drink their tea in silence. It’s not an uncomfortable silence, not as weird as it once was, but it’s not particularly welcoming either. 

 

“Do you ever… regret taking this job?” Breen asks, sipping his tea with a disgruntled look on his face. 

 

That’s certainly a question. It requires a bit of thinking over. Has she ever regretted working for the Brokenwood Police? Yes. But it’s worth it. It’s always worth it. Despite the things that go wrong.

 

She says as much to him.

 

“Yeah.” Breen sighs. “I’ve never really hated it. Even after that time I dived into that wastewater tank to save that thief. Even then.”

 

That had been the worst smell of her life, but Kristen gets it. They plough through the shit (literal, as the case may be) because they get to help people. It may sound cheesy, but it’s worth it in the end. 

 

Breen yawns and then immediately looks surprised. “I seriously thought I’d have to get way more drunk to get to this point.” 

 

“Crawling inside a bottle isn’t the only option.”

 

The look he gives her is long-suffering. “You’re telling me that? Me? I have two beers and I’m wasted. I could never be an alcoholic.”

 

“Good.” 

 

Alcohol abuse is worse in small towns. It’s something that they all spend a lot of time dealing with, and she knows that the drinking culture with the rugby boys is especially pervasive. She doesn’t want someone like Breen falling victim to it. 

 

“Do you think gun crime is getting worse?” She asks, suddenly, not even sure why she’s brought it up. It seems like it is. A few years ago, she was never held at gunpoint, but now, it seems like it happens most weeks.

 

“Oh yeah, definitely.” Breen looks over at her and blinks. “Are you being serious? Of course it is. More arseholes with guns see people with guns on TV and think that they can get away with it.” 

 

“Great, not just me then.” 

 

Breen yawns again and sighs, looking around slightly blearily. “I’m not going to make it home, I don’t think. Can I crash here?”

 

“Yes.” She puts her mug down and moves to stand. “...If you make pancakes in the morning. Since you’re decent at that.” 

 

“Decent?!” Breen yelps in protest as she walks over to her linen cupboard to get the thick blankets she’s got for such an occasion. “I am the pancake  _ master. [Stuart Nash](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Stuart_Nash) _  would sell his soul for my pancakes.”

 

“Fair.” She agrees, grudgingly, and throws a pile of blankets at his head.

 

After he’s managed to untangle himself from every single blanket he didn’t catch, he pouts a bit and glares at her. “Was that really necessary?”

 

“Yes.” She replies, refusing to feel sorry for him. “Definitely. I’m going to bed.”

 

“Sleep well.” He says, as she puts her mug in the sink. “I know this is compromising my serious and emotionless exterior, but if I hear screaming there’s a fairly high chance I will come in to check on you.” 

 

“Yeah.”

 

She wouldn’t expect anything less. 


	2. Chapter 2

Kristen dreams of horrible things that evening. It’s to be expected, it’s what always happens, but she wishes she could just down some sleeping pills and make the nightmares go away. 

Perils of the job, it seems. 

 

She’s up and fumbling about in her kitchen for coffee way before dawn breaks. It’s winter, so the sun takes its time in coming up, but it’s still too early. 

 

Breen cracks open an eye and watches her from the couch. “You going to make those pancakes you promised me?”

 

He looks like hell.

Hell, she probably does too. “You slept over, it’s your job.”

 

“Sleeping is certainly a word.” He stretches and something cracks, loudly. He winces and sits up. “I’m sure you got a lot of sleeping done last night, too.”

 

She rolls her eyes and pours an extra large cup of coffee. “Maybe an hour. Probably less.”

 

“Yeah.” Breen pushes the blankets aside and joins her in the kitchen. He doesn’t look any more alive standing up. He reaches past her and grabs for the coffee, choosing to make himself a cup of instant rather than using the plunger. “What kind of pancakes do you want?”

  
  


The day is oddly domestic, in a good way. She switches the heat pump on - a rare luxury, but she thinks they both deserve it - and they just hang out together in her house.

Breen’s chocolate-chip pancakes are an absolute delight, and they go well with the bitterness of the coffee. It’s good to have a day off, to spend the morning watching the hours tick by, rather than just rushing out of the house at the crack of dawn. 

 

“You should really market these skills.” Kristen says, eyeing the man from across the kitchen island with her fork in hand. “They’re damn good, Sam.”

 

“Well, they’re one of the only things I can cook so it’s not surprising that they’re fabulous.” He replies, deep into a pile larger than her own. After the coffee, a shower and some good food, the colour’s beginning to come back into his cheeks, but he still doesn’t look great.

 

She’s not yet ventured to look in a mirror. It’s probably for the best. 

“One of the only things? How are you still alive?”

 

“I can cook toast, ramen and soup, Kris. I’m a fully functioning adult.” 

 

“Mmm, yeah.” That one is more deriding. 

 

“Well, I only date people who I know like cooking!” He exclaims, and raises his fork to her. “They do the things they like, I contribute to the household by doing the chores they don’t want to do - it works perfectly.”

 

It seems like a weird way to live, but she doesn’t mention it. “You must be running out of choices in the Brokenwood dating pool.”

 

He scrunches up his nose at her, and then asks, suddenly, “Speaking of, how’s Kahu?”

 

Arse. He knows exactly how Kahu is. “Speaking of, how’s Roxy?”

 

Breen huffs, and shakes his head. “Yeah, I probably shouldn’t have asked, eh?”

 

“Probably not.” 

 

He finishes off the last of his pancakes in one bite. “It’s the realities of this job. We’re destined to be alone, all three of us.”

 

“Three?”

 

“Yeah, think about Mike. I don’t want to besmirch the man’s good reputation and all, but he’s had  _ a lot  _ of ex-wives.” 

 

They’ve not really established on a number, and neither of them have asked. It’s somewhere in the realm between two and ten. She stands up, and puts her plate in the sink, then says, dryly, “I don’t think he’d go for a polyam triad even if it didn’t break every single one of our workplace’s rules.”

 

“A triad-” Breen blinks at her, eyes wide, “Kristen Simms, are you sexually harassing me? I could take you to HR for that.”

 

“You know I’m not. Anyway. Are you going to hang around all day? I’m not going to kick you out but I’m really not planning on doing anything interesting today.”

 

“That’s fine.” He wanders over and puts his plate in the sink as well, then weaves his way back to the couch. “I am completely happy to occupy your couch until you make me leave. You have Netflix, yeah?”

 

“Breen, what world are you living in? Who doesn’t have Netflix?” She joins him on the couch. 

 

He politely moves his legs out of the way so he’s only occupying three-quarters of the couch, rather than the full thing and tosses a blanket in the general direction of her face. “Mike doesn’t. He still watches things on DVD. Disgusting.” 

 

That doesn’t surprise her at all. “Mike’s an old soul. He’ll be listening to country and watching DVDs until the day he dies.” 

 

He snorts, but there’s something deeper in it, all the same. “Yeah. Look, Kris, thank you for this. Seriously.” 

 

“It’s not a problem. Thank  _ you  _ for the pancakes.”

 

Kristen doesn’t mention the company, how good it is to have a house that’s not empty for once, but she knows he understands. They’ve worked together long enough that their relationship is basically instinctual by now.

 

She dozes off in the middle of an episode of  _ Jane the Virgin  _ and wakes later to find Breen asleep next to her, quilt pulled neatly to his chin. He’s also leaning on her shoulder, which she probably should find uncomfortable, but she can’t bring herself to care.

They’ve been through so much together that it’s very hard to find anything awkward any more. 

It’s warm _.  _ It's comfortable.

It's...  _nice._


	3. Chapter 3

“Right. Where do we go from here?” Mike writes a heading on the whiteboard and strikes a line underneath it. 

 

There’s been another death. That’s Brokenwood, really. The suspicious death rate is far higher than anywhere else in the country, barring the big cities. Kristen doesn’t know why anyone keeps coming back. 

This one’s especially tragic. A Jane Doe, found in a wedding dress, by the side of the Mahurangi river. According to Gina, it wasn’t the water that killed her, but rather severe internal trauma - likely from taking a rough beating.

She couldn’t have been any older than 18.

 

“The wedding and the fiance.” Breen suggests. “Husband, wife, whatever.” 

 

“The only issue I see with that is finding them.” Kristen adds, thinking quickly. “No-one gets married in the middle of winter, especially in what our Jane Doe was wearing. The dress was too floaty. Light fabrics. It mightn’t be from a recent wedding.” 

 

“Good point.” Mike nods at her, obviously impressed. It’s nice to get praise from him, and it certainly doesn’t happen very often. “Look for the wedding - if there’s no weddings in the local area in recent days, try looking for the dress. Wedding dresses are usually custom made, yes?”

 

He directs that one at her, which is no surprise. If anyone’s seen Breen, they’d know that he has absolutely no sense of style. “Not always - though if it was off the rack they’re probably not selling too many of them, and they’ll definitely have a customer list. I’ll get Gina to check for a label.”

 

“Good.” Mike writes ‘wedding dress - customer base??’ up on the board. “What else?” 

 

“The guy who found her, that was a private road, wasn’t it? What was he doing in the area?” Breen posits, “He could have been misdirecting us.”

 

It’s as likely as any other of the options.

 

“If the wedding dress is incidental, it’s definitely premeditated, even if it’s not the partner.” Kristen says, “Are there any road cams in the area that we could pull footage from?”

 

Mike finishes writing on the whiteboard and steeples his fingers, thinking. “I’ll chase up the cameras, Breen - you get in contact with the person who found her. Kristen, try and pull a name from the wedding dress. If we find out who she is we’ll be closer to finding her killer. Dismissed.” 

 

All deaths are horrible, but this one is especially so. There’s something so sinister about it. They deal with a lot of gun deaths, accidental or premeditated - that’s rural New Zealand for you - but it’s very rare to find something so… gruesome. Even though there’s not a lot of blood on the surface, the woman must have been in a lot of pain when she died. 

 

Kristen catches up with Gina and finds that the wedding dress is unlabelled. She takes some photos of details of the dress - it’s a little hard to do considering the terrible state the dress is in and the terrible state of the person wearing it - and heads out to Brokenwood’s only wedding dress shop. 

It’s not the largest place in the town - most people planning a wedding would head into the City for their shopping - and it’s oddly quaint. She’s never actually been inside before, but is shocked to find Mrs Marlowe conversing with the shop owner, a well-dressed young man with quite a perilous undercut.

 

“-and they found her, dead!” The old woman gasps, in the way that she usually does. “Of course, it was the farmer that killed her, I’m sure of it-”

 

The young man rolls his eyes at her from behind Mrs Marlowe’s back and mouths, “Won’t be a moment.”

 

“-and I- oh! Kristen!” Mrs Marlowe finally notices that she’s entered into the shop. She exclaims, “Are you finally getting married, dear? To that lovely ginger detective of yours? Well, I’d best leave you to it!”   
  


She hustles out of the shop with a gleam in her eye and Kristen  _ knows _ , without a doubt, that the gossip will be around the entire district by noon.

 

“He’s not my- we’re just colleagues.” She trails off, the sentence falling on deaf ears.

 

_ Colleagues who occasionally sleep in each other’s beds  _ is both an accurate statement and something she’s never ever going to say out loud.

 

The shop owner shakes off his confused look and holds out a hand. “Alexander Turnbull. You’re getting married to Sam Breen?”

 

“Absolutely not.” Kristen takes his hand and shakes it anyway. “Kristen Simms. I’m a police officer and I’m here on a case.” She takes the opportunity to show him her badge, but there’s something that she really can’t get out her head. “Are you named after the library?”

 

“Sure am!” Alexander brightens. “My parents  _ really  _ like books, okay. What can I help you with?”

 

She gets out her phone and swipes through the collection of pictures of the dress. “I can’t disclose much about this, but I’m looking for the owner of this dress. Have you sold this recently?”

 

Alexander takes the phone off her and squints at it then shakes his head. “It’s not one of mine. My stitches are far better. Looks like  _ Aphrodite? _ Have you heard of them?”

 

“No.”

 

“I can FaceTime them if you want. Their dresses are custom-made too so there’s a fairly high chance you’ll be able to find the one you’re looking for.” 

 

“I’d really appreciate that.”

 

Alexander pulls his phone from his pocket and dials a number from memory. He holds it up to his face for a few moments and then rolls his eyes. “I’m on hold. Kill me.” 

 

“Do they have a large enough clientele that they can put people on hold?” Kristen asks, surprised despite herself. 

 

“No, they just think they do.” Alexander sighs, sets the phone down, and presses the speaker button. 

 

Tami Neilson's “Running to You” blasts from the phone, and he turns it down to something less than totally ear-destroying.

 

“Even luxury dress shops still subscribe to the stereotypes, huh?” She remarks. 

 

“Oh, absolutely.” Alexander leans back onto the counter and looks her up and down with a practised eye. There’s nothing sexual in it, but she feels it all the same. “So, was Mrs Marlowe just making things up, or do you actually have a thing with Sam? Cause he was like -  _ fairly  _ attractive at high school, but I still wouldn’t marry him.”

 

“Oh, God no.” Kristen can’t believe this is where the conversation has gone. She loves the man, really, but  _ honestly.  _ Marriage? Never. “We’re colleagues. Just colleagues.” 

 

“Honestly, probably for the best.” Alexander nods, passively. “Does he still do that thing where -”

 

But he doesn’t get to finish his sentence as the song fades out and the phone’s screen flickers to an image of a man, “Alexander? What favour do you want from me now?”

 

“Charlie, my man, I only ask you for things because you’re so good at them.” Alexander preens, and holds the phone up close to his face. 

 

“That is profoundly untrue. I-”

 

“My darling, let’s not fight about this. I have a detective with me right now. Your head isn’t so stuck in the clouds that you remember what one of those is, right?” 

 

The man on the other end of the phone sniffs, quite loudly. “If we are going to start on egos, I should -”

 

“Excuse me!” Kristen interjects, sticking her head into the frame. Although the banter is amusing, there’s also a dead woman to contend with. “Charlie, is it?”

 

“Charles.” He’s blonde, Caucasian, and dressed very formally. 

 

“Charles. Of course. My name is Kristen Simms. I’m a detective with the Brokenwood Police. Would you be able to answer a few questions for me?” 

 

“A detective?” Charles’ tone turns curious. Interested. “Is this true, Alexander?” 

 

“She showed me her badge and everything.” Alexander chortles, “It’s been a long time since a woman did anything of the sort.”

 

Good lord. “Anyway.” Kristen interjects, again, trying her hardest to keep the conversation on track. She flips her badge at the screen. “Would I be able to ask you some questions? I’m on the hunt for the owner of a certain dress, and there’s been no luck on my end.” 

 

Charles’ eyes widen. “You’re looking for a dress? Why a wedding dress?”

 

“I’m not permitted to disclose that information.”

 

“Fine.” Charles sighs. “I just thought I’d ask. Since you are a detective and all - how would you describe this dress?”

 

That’s the hard part. “I, uh-”

  
“Deep-v off the shoulder with a flow from the waist -” Alexander starts, “Actually, fuck it - I’ll just send you the pics. They look like your stitches. One mo.” He waves his hand for Kristen’s phone, and she offers it over. 

 

It’s probably not the greatest conduct, but they might be getting somewhere, so Kristen’s not exactly going to say no.

 

“Yes, that is one of mine.” Charles says, a moment later. “Very sweet family from last season, daughter was  _ so  _ worried about getting married when they came in for the fitting - wait - she’s not- that looks - is she dead?”

 

“I cannot disclose anything about the case at this time.” Kristen says, but she’s sure her expression tells it all.

 

“Horrible.” Charles blinks, expression going foggy. “I’ll - do you want to know who she is- uh, was?”

 

“I’d appreciate that.” 

 

“Right.” Charles sniffs, and puts the phone down. “I won’t be a moment.” 

 

As Charles rustles around off camera, Alexander mouths, “I  _ hate  _ him.” 

Really? Kristen hadn’t noticed.

 

“Found it.” Charles reemerges back into frame. “Teresa Colburn. Apartment 12B, Stafford Apartments, 109 Akepiro St, Brokenwood - actually, I think those apartments were torn down a month or so ago - but the name’s right. I have her number too. Will that help you with your investigation?”

 

His expression is so pitiful that Kristen just has to agree. “Yes. A lot. Thank you.” 

  
  


She drives past the site of the Stafford Apartments on her way back to the station, and Charles had been right. There’s not a building there anymore, just an empty lot with a For Sale sign up outside. The phone number is a bust, too - the only thing she gets is a message saying that the number has been disconnected from the network. 

 

When she arrives back at the station, Breen is looking aggravated and rubbing mud off his forehead with a damp cloth. 

 

“What -”

 

“Car got stuck in mud.” He grunts, and gestures at the pile of muddy clothes sitting in a bag next to him. “Don’t ask.”

She doesn’t ask.

“I found our Jane Doe.” 

 

“Really?” Breen asks. That seems to interest him, and he sits up, cloth forgotten. There’s still a long streak of mud down one cheek, but she doesn’t mention it. “That easily?”

 

“I mean, I know her name. And it’s unique too so hopefully there won’t be many hits on the database.”

 

“Good.” Breen nods seriously. “I got my car stuck in the mud at the base of Brokenwood Hill and I had to push it out by myself. I’m glad at least one of us was productive.” 

 

Mike comes wandering in then, carrying a laptop and a plunger full of coffee. He places both items down on Breen’s desk. “Any luck?”   
  


“We have a name.” Kristen replies. She grabs the cloth and swipes at Breen’s cheek, because although she enjoys teasing him sometimes, she’s not actually that much of an arse.

 

“I have footage of the body being abandoned by the Mahurangi. Anything from you, Breen?”

 

“Just… a lot of mud?” Breen replies, pathetically. “Sorry. I did have a poke around on that private road, but no luck. Got nothing more from the witness, either.”

 

“Only you.” Mike sighs, and opens the laptop. “But it doesn’t matter. Take a look.”

 

On the screen, a pale white ute drives down a sparse country road. The ute’s plateless, indistinguishable. The view on the screen flips through various camera angles, as they see the ute stop by the side of a bridge, its occupants (all clad in hoodies) climb out, and then toss a wrapped body into the water far below.

It’s a grisly sight.

 

“Horrible.” Breen says, with a shiver. “Any luck tracing the ute’s origin?”

 

“It comes out of the bush a few kms back off a road with plenty of houses and multiple exit points on it. There’s no cameras on that road, and we couldn’t find any additional angles. Couldn’t even find where the damn thing returned to.” Mike explains.

On the screen, the ute drives off, vanishing off the right of the screen.

 

“Not too much to go on.” Kristen says, “But I did get a name. Teresa Colburn. Last known address was the Stafford Apartments until they got knocked down. Think we could pull something from that?”

 

“I think we’re definitely going to try.” Mike replies, gaze set.


	4. Chapter 4

It doesn't take long to find the victim's entry in the database. She'd been pulled up on a DUI case a year or so earlier, and there'd been no other Coburns in the area that fitted her description. The only entry Kristen finds has got to be her.

 

"Teresa Colburn." She says, and pins up an image she'd taken from her Facebook page to their whiteboard. 26. Unattached - or at least that's what her Facebook says - and formally a resident of the Heaven Apartment block on Telemore Rise." 

 

"Heaven Apartments? That's... really bigging up your company, isn't it?" Breen ponders. "Are they good?" 

 

"Supposed to be adequate, at least according to Tripadvisor. The thing is, they're not called that because they're heavenly. They're called that because they're run by a religious organisation - 'Sisters of Heaven'. Have you heard of them?" 

 

"I don't tend to follow all those weird new religious groups." Breen types away on his phone for a moment then winces. "Ew. Looks culty. Heavily Catholic too." 

 

"Yes, that's the impression I got too." 

 

"I mean, it could be nothing but -" 

 

"It might not be." Mike emerges from his office. "Do you have the apartment number?" 

 

"Sure do. 026." Kristen replies, after quickly consulting her notebook. 

 

"Good. Well, that's a good angle to start with.” Mike steeps his hands together and thinks for a moment, “Why don't you two take a trip over to Telemore Rise and visit their property manager? Getting into that apartment should give us something to go off."

 

"Sure thing, Senior. What will you do?" Breen pulls on his coat, which still has a smudge of mud on it, and frowns down at it. 

 

"Teresa had a purse on her when she died, but no phone. No credit cards. They could easily be in her apartment, but I doubt it. I'm going to talk to IT about getting a trace on her cards. I doubt the people we're looking for would have been dense enough to take them away and use them, but it's worked before. We'll see. Dismissed."

 

It’s an easy enough task for Kristen and Breen.

What is unfortunate about it is that it doesn’t work. 

 

When they arrive at the Heaven Apartments, they’re vehemently refused entry by the property manager there. She’s a matronly-looking woman, probably in her mid-60s, with her hair tied up in a tight bun, and she won’t let them in without a warrant.

She hardly seems fazed by the news of Teresa’s death, either.

 

“Come back with a warrant, or not at all, Detectives,” she says and shuts the door in their faces.

 

Back in the car, Breen seems weird put-out. “That place gave me the creeps.” He says, still rubbing mulishly at the mud stain on his jacket. “Don’t you think so? They’ve gotta be hiding something.”

 

“It’s probably best that we don’t jump to conclusions, Breen.” 

 

“Oh, come on. You felt it, didn’t it? The whole place seemed weird and it wasn’t just because of all the crosses everywhere.” 

 

It had. As soon as they’d got out of the car, it felt like there’d been eyes everywhere. It had felt like they had been watched for the entire duration of their stay there, and the feeling hadn’t gone away until they’d gotten back in the car.

But she doesn’t want to agree with Breen’s fantasizing. It’s not helpful. “I don’t know.” 

 

“Ugh. Fine.” Breen sits back in his seat and drops his jacket. “Whatever. Let’s just go and get that warrant so we can take a look inside.” 

 

The warrant takes a couple of hours and the sky is beginning to darken by the time they leave the police station. Mike is in the midst of some kind of disagreement with a business owner - all Kristen hears as they head out the door are  the words, “...inappropriately small donkeys,” and she doesn’t want to know what that’s about. He bids them farewell with a wave and the classic Kiwi head tilt.

 

“Just letting you know now - I really don’t want to go inside that place.” Breen says, as she pulls her car into the driveway. “Like, really, really don’t.” 

 

“Why?” She asks, even though she knows. It’s not the religion thing, at all - there’s just something about instincts, and she feels like she should trust this one. There’s something off about the place.

 

“It makes me feel weird, Kris. I don’t trust it. You know?”

 

She does, but there’s really nothing they can do about it. “We’re just going in for a quick look. In and out, Breen. See what we can find and if there’s anything interesting we’ll get CIB back for a better look. Alright?”

 

“Yeah.” He doesn’t seem convinced. 

 

“Keep your wits about you.” 

 

“Yeah.” 

 

They step out of the car. She pulls on her jacket, grasps her phone, notebook and keys and locks the door behind them.

The property manager doesn’t seem happy with the warrant, but can’t say anything against it. She leads them up to the apartment and unlocks it, grumpily, and says, “Don’t go anywhere else in the building. It’s not safe for you.” 

 

Which is absolutely a red flag, but Kristen just smiles and says, “We won’t, ma’am, thank you for your time.”

 

The property manager leaves them to it and Kristen turns and opens the door to the flat.

What first hits Kristen is the smell of  _ disuse.  _ There’s dust everywhere - coating the walls, the windows, the ceiling. The place is full of cobwebs.

But, oddly enough - it’s also full of rubbish. 

There’s a cup of coffee sitting on top of the dining table that’s completely moulded over - the surface of the liquid all thick and claggy with fungus. A piece of toast sits next to the plate, spiked over with blue dots. It’s utterly filthy.

Kristen gags. She’s fairly used to blood but mouldy food really gets to her.

 

“What the hell is this?” Breen breathes, looking around the space with an absolutely revolted look. “Who on earth would just up and leave like t-”

But that’s when he spots the smears of red-brown all along the kitchen floor. It’s dried and flecked, but it’s there all the same. There’s a shattered piece of crockery on the ground too, perhaps another mug or a breakfast bowl. 

 

“She must have been abducted  _ months  _ ago.” Kristen says, “But why did no-one report her missing?”

 

“Her database listing said she had parents. Surely she had friends too. How could something like this go unnoticed?” Breen lifts up one of the blinds with the tip of his pen. It showers dust all along the floor. 

 

“Maybe they just didn’t care enough.”

 

“Don’t be ridiculous. Brokenwood’s small - surely  _ someone  _ noticed when she stopped turning up to work.” 

 

“Maybe.” Kristen pulls on a latex glove. She opens a drawer by the bed and finds a Bible. It’s well-thumbed - to an excessive degree. “Looks like someone’s been taking advantage of organised religion. Look at this.”

 

Breen wanders over and wrinkles his nose at the whole thing. “That’s… excessive. I was a choir boy as a kid, you know, and I never saw any Bibles that were that well-used.” 

 

“You were a choir boy?” She snorts, imagining a scrappy redheaded boy with far too much sarcasm to make it work. It lightens the mood.

 

“Yeah, I was great at it, too. Picture perfect model of the Catholic Church. Shame it didn’t stick, I suppose.” 

 

“You could have become the town reverend, Sam. Reverend Breen has a sort of ring to it, I suppose.”

 

“In what world?” He sniffs disparagingly and lifts up the pillows on the bed. There’s a rosary resting on the white sheets.

 

“Catholicism is really having a resurgence in this town, isn’t it?” 

 

“Yeah.” He lifts the rosary up and slips it into an evidence bag. “But, look - as much as the whole Catholic childhood is kind of fuzzy, I do remember that you usually wouldn’t put a rosary under your pillow. It’s the sort of thing you’d do if you wanted to protect yourself while you slept or something.”

 

“What was she wanting to protect herself from while she slept, though?” Kristen writes down the information in her notebook.

 

“No idea.”

 

They poke through the rest of the apartment gingerly. The entire place is full of dust and bizarre religious imagery. It’s Catholic - to a point - but heavily fundamentalist. For a city such as Brokenwood, it’s almost archaic. Brokenwood isn’t exactly progressive, but it’s definitely not a breeding ground for cult-type behaviour. 

“Well, this is horribly sexist.” Breen points to a diagram on the wall that has three umbrellas on it. The top umbrella is the largest, and it reads ‘God’. The one below reads ‘Husband’, and has the subheading next to it that says ‘protect and provide for the family’. The third umbrella is the smallest and reads ‘Wife - children and managers of home’. 

 

“Charles said that Teresa was coming in to get a wedding dress,” Kristen muses, “So who was she marrying? Why didn’t the spouse miss her?”

 

“Why didn’t he let us know?”

 

Kristen eyes him carefully. “The spouse could have been a woman.”

 

He snorts. “In this place? Really? Also - when we were looking around did you see any signs of cohabitation? There’s not even two toothbrushes in the bathroom.”

 

“Maybe she called it off.”

 

“Maybe she did.” 

 

They leave the room just after five pm. It’s fully dark outside - the joys of winter in Brokenwood - and the road outside is quiet. 

 

“Well, that felt like a waste of time.” Breen remarks, and plops down in the passenger seat. 

 

“It wasn’t.” She replies, “We’ve got some things to go off.”

 

“Not many things, though.” He reclines his seat a tad and sinks back into it. He doesn’t look happy. 

 

She sighs, longsufferingly, and starts the car. “What’s wrong?”

 

“Just a bit freaked out, Kris.”

 

“Yeah.” She is too. The whole thing is abnormal for Brokenwood. It’s slightly  _ too  _ weird. She can deal with tontines and carnies killing each other, but cult-like religion? No thanks. 

 

“It’s almost worse than that damn haunted building.”

 

She pulls out onto the main road. “For the last time, Breen, that place wasn’t haun-”

 

A white ute rams straight into the car, knocks them off the road, and straight into a ditch. 

She doesn’t feel much for a while after that. 


	5. Chapter 5

“- and I said as much to him about you, honey, but he didn’t seem very interested.” 

 

Kristen wakes, head pounding, to blurred eyesight and a body full of pain. The world around her is white. Too white. Hospital room? She can’t see who’s talking, but the woman sounds old. “What’s going on? Who are you?”

 

“Oh!” The woman swoops in closer. She smiles down at Kristen, and it does appear that her first guess was right. The woman is older, with white hair tied in a tight bun. She’s dressed in heavy, cream garments, and has an old-fashioned pocketwatch attached to her lapel. “Good to see that you’re awake, dear. How are you feeling?”

 

“Like I’ve been hit by a truck.” She tries to move her body - to sit up, to do  _ something  _ \- and swears furiously when something pulls wrongly in her torso. “Fuck! Goddammit!”

 

“We don’t use such language here.” The woman says, and pushes her back down. She’s frowning now. It fits her face. “Go back to sleep. Hopefully your temperament will be a little bit nicer when you wake up.”

 

She must have administered something to her, because Kristen’s eyes are already closing. “Wait…” She slurs, “Where’s… uh… here?”

 

“Don’t you worry, dearie. Just sleep.” 

 

Kristen sleeps.

  
  


When she wakes again the room is quiet. There’s no-one in sight and she just manages to stand up from the bed and hobble over to the bathroom to use the toilet. There’s cuts and bruises all over her face, her ribs are aching, and she’s pretty sure she’s got a broken arm.

That’s not what worries her, though.

The alarming thing is the quiet. 

Mike should be here. It’s not an arrogant thing to think, because they’re  _ close.  _ He’d absolutely be waiting for her to wake up -and it’s odd that he’s not around. Maybe it’s the middle of the night or something, but she can’t really tell.

There’s no windows in the hospital room.

(Which is thoroughly weird besides.) 

 

Her phone’s not with her, so she can’t check the time, and although she hunts around the room for her clothes, she can’t seem to find them. Maybe they were taken off her or something, but even that feels weird.

And then she tries the door.

Which is locked.

Tight.

 

Now that’s  _ weird. _

 

“Hello?” She calls, trying to stop the panic rising in her stomach. She’s usually fairly well-balanced in critical situations, but this is  _ weird.  _ She doesn’t like it. Something about it seems wrong. Very wrong. 

 

“Hello? Can anyone hear me?” She pulls at the door again, and it doesn’t budge. 

_ Awful.  _ She knows a little bit about picking locks, so she bends down and takes a look at the doorknob, and realises that it’s not even the kind of doorknob that locks. The door must be  _ bolted  _ or something from the outside.

This isn’t right.

It must be connected to the Colburn case.

She gingerly sits back onto the bed and tries to think. Teresa Colburn’s body had been dumped in a river, in a wedding dress. They investigated the circumstances around the death, found her apartment, and took a look around. 

Heightened religious imagery, cult-like principles… Then they had tried to head back to the station and a white ute had run them off the road -

 

A white ute.

 

A  _ white ute.  _ She tries to think back to the crash itself, tries to make out any details from the ute. Could it have been the same one from the Colburn cam footage?

It very well could have been. 

 

She doesn’t want to jump to conclusions - finds that that’s a very bad idea in her profession - but the logic of it adds up. They were investigating the place, someone didn’t  _ want  _ them investigating the place, and thus…  _ this. _

Here.

Wherever here is. 

 

The thought makes her sick to her stomach. She’s unsure whether the sudden-onset nausea is anxiety or some remnant of whatever hellish painkillers she’s sure she was on, but it’s bad enough that she hobbles back to the bathroom and empties her stomach into the toilet.

God. She’s not felt so terrible in years.

 

Okay. Okay. She can’t panic. 

She needs to approach this rationally. If she  _ is  _ being held hostage by the Sisters of Heaven - or a cult, or something - she needs to have a clear head, figure out their motivations, decide on how to proceed. 

 

Panicking is not going to do anything, especially when she’s trapped in such a small room. They bandaged her up, they gave her painkillers, obviously they don’t want to kill them immediately.

_ Them. _

 

Speaking of ‘them’ - where’s Breen? She’s sure the ute hit her side of the car, even though things are a little fuzzy, so with luck he’s -

She stops the thought before she has a chance to spiral. 

No. She’s not going to even go down that train of thought. Breen’s fine.

 

“Well, it seems that someone is up and about!” The door bursts open and the white-haired from earlier barrels in. She doesn’t look as annoyed as she had previously, but still seems vaguely surprised to see Kristen up and walking about.

 

“Where am I?” Kristen asks, trying as hard as she can to stop it sounding accusatory. “What’s going on?”

 

“Well, you’re at Heavensedge, dear. And you’re lucky to be alive. Of course, the boys do like their truck collusions and all, but they could have lightened their pressure on the gas pedal a little.” 

 

“You crashed into us on purpose?” Kristen gasps, although she’d figured it out already. It’s just bizarre to hear that sort of thing out loud.

 

“Well, yes, honey.” The nurse steps closer and starts examining the dressing on Kristen’s arm. She tsks. “You were poking your nose into things that just didn’t concern you, so we’ve taken you away from all of that detective nonsense. Don’t worry, you’re not going to be harmed.”

 

She smiles. It’s probably supposed to be kindly.

It’s not.

 

“Where am I?” Kristen pulls her arm away from the woman and gets a shooting pain all the way up through her shoulder for her troubles. “Tell me where I am.”

 

“Heavensedge, like I said, dear.” The nurse frowns, and grasps her arm again. “And-”

 

“But  _ where  _ is Heavensedge?”

 

“Well, I can’t just tell you that.” The nurse re-secures some of the bandages around her arm. “And don’t interrupt. It’s a bad modern impulse and we just won’t have it here.” 

 

“Let us go.” Kristen says, “Please.”

 

It’s a weak plea, and she’s got absolutely nothing to bargain with, but she’s nauseous and panicky. It comes from desperation.

 

“Don’t be ridiculous.” The woman tilts Kristen’s head back and forth, and Kristen lets her do it, because, really, what other choice does she have? “You will stay here and learn the errors of your ways. All the trappings of your modern lives are so, so troublesome, but I assure you that you’ll grow to like it here.”

 

“Where’s Breen?” It hurts that she only just thought of him, but she needs to know. If she’s trapped here alone she’ll-

 

“Samuel is injured, but alive. Don’t worry, dear.”

 

She breathes a sigh of relief. That’s one thing that’s right in this terrible place. But - “You’re just going to trap us here?”

 

“Think of it as a sabbatical, dear. A break from your modern lives.”

 

And then, she just  _ leaves. _

Just like that.

 

Kristen lies back on the bed and thinks. She has no clue how to get out of the place, has no idea where she is, and no concept of time. Breen is missing, she’s injured, and she’s caught up in a web of something that she has hardly any comprehension of. 

She needs to wait before she makes a move. She can’t act rashly. Some of these people have killed before, and she’s sure that they won’t hesitate to do so again. 

 

There’s no clock in the room, so she’s unsure how long she stares at the ceiling, but she’s snapped from her reverie by the nurse returning and placing a parcel at the end of the bed. “Get dressed. Tie your hair up in a bun.” She says, no nonsense, and leaves again.

 

Well, it’s not like Kristen has a choice.

She sits up and examines the box. Within it is a horrifying plain cotton underwear set, a long blue dress, stockings, shoes and a woolen blue cardigan.  There’s also a few hair ties. 

The nurse barges right back in just as Kristen’s finished dressing. The long dress is rough and scratchy - to the point where she almost preferred the feeling of the hospital gown she had been clothed in. 

 

“That bun needs to be tighter.” The nurse says, and fixes it, her fingers rough in Kristen’s hair.

 

Kristen hadn’t had it easy - trying to tie her hair into a bun with her right arm almost out of commission hadn’t been easy, and nigh on impossible. But, she doesn’t argue.

 

The nurse steps back, and looks Kristen over. “Good. You’ll do. Come with me.”

 

The thought of leaving the room is nearly terrifying. Hostage situations are never good, but it’s very rare that she’s on the other side of one. But it’s not like she has a choice.

So she follows the nurse out of the room and into a long hallway. It’s rustic-looking, obviously homemade, and full of windows. As they walk, she catches occasional glimpses into other rooms - where people are rising from their slumber, folding items of clothing and -

She stops, dead still, at one of the rooms, where two people are- quite thoroughly - going at it.

 

“It’s rude to stare, dear.” The nurse grasps her by the arm and pulls her along. “They’re one-way mirrors, so they can’t see us, but even so.”

 

“You just… watch people… uh, ...make love?” It’s not exactly how she’d describe what’s going on in the room, but she feels as though the nurse wouldn’t take the more colloquial term very well.

 

“It is for procreation purposes only. We have to ensure that things don’t go wrong.” The nurse explains, and continues to drag her along, “Don’t fret, you’ll get your chance very soon.”

 

_ WHAT? _

That adds a whole new layer to circumstances at Heavensedge, and Kristen is wholeheartedly sure she doesn’t like it. 

  
  


Kristen is led into another antechamber, off the edge of one of the hallways. She spots Breen before he sees her. He’s slumped over the side of a chair, looking pale, and has his head in his hands. The dark grey pants and shirt he’s dressed in don’t suit him, and they seem to pinch uncomfortably around the edges. He doesn’t look quite like himself.

However, she wouldn’t miss that red mop of hair anywhere.

 

“Breen?” 

 

Even though the nurse had said that he was injured but fine, it’s  _ so  _ good to see him in front of her. She’s not alone in a strange, new place, and that’s more reassurance than she ever could have given herself. 

He jerks upright, and she gets to see the true state of his injuries for the first time. He doesn’t look well - being thoroughly cut up and bruised in the face (and presumably elsewhere) - but he’s still alive. He’s still here.

 

“Kris.” He breathes, and limps over to give her a hug. “I thought you’d-”

But he doesn’t need to finish the sentence. They both know where it’s going.

 

“No. I’m right here.” 

 

“Ah. Excellent.” At the nurse’s words, they break apart. She’s smiling.

It’s not a good look.

 

“I did think it’d be troublesome that there were no unattached young men in Heavensedge,” she begins, “but I see that you two already have a connection. You will make excellent life partners.” 

 

“What?” Kristen asks, just as Breen says, “Sorry?”

 

“Heavensedge is a secluded community.” The nurse explains. “As aligned with our doctrine, and our expansion goals, every woman of fertile age must be partnered with an unwed man and join in a union to produce children. Heavensedge must grow, and every new arrival must help us.”

 

“But - I’m on the pill.” Kristen says, dumbly, because the whole thing is just far too much to process. She’s not on the pill, not really - it’s more of an IUD situation - but somehow she thinks that telling their literal captors that wouldn’t be the greatest idea.

The whole thing is  _ sickening.  _ Sickening. But she doesn’t have time to process it.

 

The nurse just smiles gently and says, “We have all the time in the world, dear. It’ll wear off soon enough.” 

 

She takes them to a fenced-off cabin area outside the main compound. They see people playing in the grass, walking from cabin to cabin as they pass, but the nurse warns them off communicating as they walk. “Don’t talk to them.” She says, “We wouldn’t want to have to disturb the peace and harmony of Heavensedge by administering punishment, would we?”

Kristen shivers and pulls her cardigan further around her. It’s only partially because of the cold winter air. 

 

“Now, be free.” The nurse instructs.. “Ensure you read your scripture and complete your activities. Meals will be served at 7am, noon and 7pm. Blessed be.” 

And with that, she leaves.

 

“What the fu-” But before Breen can even start speaking, Kristen slaps a hand over his mouth and drags him outside. There’s a little porch that overlooks a wide open green field, and a high metal fence about two metres from it. 

They perch on the edge of the porch.

 

“What was that for?” Breen hisses, looking emotionally wounded as well as physically.

 

“They had one-way mirrors in that place, Sam. Do you really think weird cult people aren’t going to bug a room?”

 

He considers for a moment. “...okay. Good point. Yes. Okay. What the hell do we do, Kristen? Where the hell are we? Do you know how long we’ve been asleep?” 

 

“Some place called Heavensedge. I guess it’s a commune? I think we stumbled upon something big in that apartment, Sam.” 

 

“And then they decided to take it out on us. Bloody brilliant.” He goes to lean back, winces, and then decides against it. 

 

“Your ribs?”

 

“Yeah. Feels like I’ve been through the wars.”

 

“Or a car crash.” 

 

Breen rubs at a graze on the back of his hand, thoughtfully. “Surely it can’t be more than a day or two. Something like this would have healed over. Mike and the others would have found us if we’d been here too long.”

 

“...I don’t necessarily think so.”

 

“...What do you mean?” He doesn’t look happy.

 

For once, she agrees.

“Just look at this place, Sam. We’re in the middle of bloody nowhere. I suspect not many people at all know about this commune. We stumbled onto something big and now we’re stuck here.” 

 

“Well, we’re going to have to get out. Surely there’s some link to the outside world somewhere in this place.”

 

“Surely.” She sighs and sags back against one of the wooden supports of the porch. It doesn’t feel good, but it’s better than sitting upright, at least.

 

“Your ribs, too?” 

 

“Yeah. Feels like I broke my arm. Plus cuts, bruises, so on.” She neglects to mention just how bruised she is. When she’d changed clothes, the entirety of her torso had been a mass of black and blue - probably from the impact.

 

“Horrible.” He looks around, seems to really take in the beauty of the place for a minute. “You know, for a really terrible culty kind of place, they did choose a nice spot for it.”

 

“Don’t even joke, Breen. The whole… life partners thing? They don’t seem to be the sort to flinch away from enforcing their beliefs.” Kristen tells him about her tour through the building - about how the commune seemed to be watching everyone’s movements all the time.

 

“And they think… we’ll??? Be a good match?” He seems to think about it for a moment, almost consideringly. “At least we’re stuck together. I don’t want to think about what it would have been like if we weren’t.”

 

“You could have found a young fundamentalist ingenue. Very much your type.”

 

“Don’t even joke.” He echoes her earlier statement. “They don’t seem to be the type to stop at anything - as far as we know they literally killed someone. What do you think they do when they’re dishing out punishments?”

 

“I don’t think we want to find out.”

 

“We need to get out of here, Kris. As soon as possible.”

 

“Yeah.” She agrees, because she’s barely been cognizant for a couple of hours, but the place feels dangerous and it looks like it too. Police training college doesn’t exactly prepare anyone for this kind of thing. “How?”

 

“Actually-” He furrows his brow for a moment, “Maybe we just lie low. For a couple of days. Figure things out. Surely they have a link to the outside world  _ somewhere.  _ We don’t want to do anything that’ll get us noticed.” 

 

“We’ve already  _ been  _ noticed. They trapped us here because we were poking around.”

 

“Yeah, but even so. Nothing else. We’ve just got to go along with their little game. Just for now.” 

 

He doesn’t really seem convinced.

It’s easier said than done. 

 


	6. Chapter 6

The cabin is very basic. Much like the furnishings inside the hospital-type building, its main purpose appears to be functionality over fashionability. Wood panelling covers the walls. It's probably rimu or something expensive, but it looks handmade. There's a small bathroom and a small living area within the cabin - simple chairs, simple toiletries, nothing that looks like it couldn't be homemade or bought for a very miniscule cost. The soap even has lavender in it.

 

"It feels like I've walked into 1880s New Zealand," Breen says, voice pained (only partly because of the decor). "I hate it." 

 

"Yeah." Kristen agrees. She's not especially fond of it too. 

 

The bedroom is as sparse as the rest of the cottage. There's one bed - only double-sized - and it's uncomfortable and flat. The sheets are scratchy and the blankets hardly seem thick enough to combat a Kiwi winter. In all, it's awful. It doesn't seem like the sort of place where anyone would want to spend a great amount of time, but then again, Heavensedge doesn't seem like that sort of place either. However, circumstances. They're just going to have to make do. 

 

There's a large wooden clock hanging on the wall out in the living area that ticks loudly. It's going to be a real nightmare during the night. There is also a large crucifix hanging on one wall, and several types of Biblical literature scattered about the place. 

 

"What do people do for fun around here?" Breen asks, morosely, sitting down at the table in the living room area and prodding at his ribs with one hand. He doesn't look happy. 

 

"I don't tend to spend a lot of time with fundamentalist Catholics, Breen." Kristen replies, "So I wouldn't know. They probably -" 

 

But whatever she's about to say is obscured when Breen prods too hard and gasps heavily. He goes pale (well, at least more pale than he already is). "Shit." 

 

"What did you do?" Kristen asks and settles down on the chair next to him. 

 

"I don't know but it really, really hurts." He staggers to his feet and just manages to make it to the bedroom, where he lies down on top of the scratchy, scratchy sheets. "Just kill me now. I hate this." 

 

"Don't be so melodramatic." Kristen hisses, and lies down next to him. "If we're assimilating, you're doing a really bad job." 

 

Breen just sighs and puts a pillow over his face. 

  
  


They are called for dinner at 6.55pm sharp - or at least according to the clock above the mantle in the living room. Kristen, at this point, is so bored that she's started flipping through one of the well-thumbed Bibles stashed in various places about the cabin. Breen just lies back on the bed and complains occasionally - but they're polite complaints, assimilating complaints, like - "Gosh, I sure wish they had painkillers in this well-made cabin!" and "Isn't Heavensedge nice? It's a real break from spending most of my work hours on Twitter." It doesn't seem convincing, but then again, he seems vaguely more broken than she is. She doesn't know why - maybe she's just got a higher pain tolerance. 

 

When she checks on him again, he's gone completely white and she sits him up and makes him drink some water just so he doesn't pass out because there’s nothing that seems like a painkiller anywhere in the cabin. It hardly seems to help. 

 

There's a knock on their door at 6.55pm sharp. When Kristen opens it, there is a young woman, seemingly hardly older than fifteen or sixteen, standing outside. She's dressed in the same clothing style as Kristen, and has a smile smoothed across her makeup-free face. "Good afternoon, sister." She says, politely. "I am Charity, one of the younger people at Heavensedge, and I'm here to lead you to dinner. Where is your life partner?"

 

"Breen's lying down." Kristen replies, because she wants to get on the good side of anyone that she can at this point. "You don't have any painkillers, do you? He's... not well."

 

"Pain is just weakness leaving the body, sister." Charity smiles, and gestures, "Also, please use your life partner's first name. We strive to create a real and honest connection between our life partners here at Heavensedge and surnames just do not work in that instance. Shall I go and fetch Samuel-" 

 

"No!" Kristen replies, a moment too quickly. "No. Sorry... sister. I'll fetch him. You couldn't see him in his current state of undressing, you understand?"

 

Last she'd looked, Breen had been shirtless, and prodding at the bandages wrapped around his torso. She doesn't care about it, and she's sure that Breen wouldn't, but she doesn't want Charity to speak to him any more than necessary. She can hold her tongue. Breen... cannot. "I'll fetch him. One moment." 

 

"Of course, sister." Charity smiles even harder, if that's possible, and just waits as Kristen closes the door. 

 

"We have dinner to go to now, Samuel." Kristen says, and reenters the bedroom to see Breen looking forlornly at his stomach. He's unraveled some of the bandages and his chest is a MESS. 

 

"You did have to do that now, didn't you?" She replies, and helps him fasten the majority of them back on. 

 

"I was itchy." 

 

"Even so." 

 

"Why'd you call me Samuel?" 

 

"They like first names here." Breen puts his shirt back on - with some help from her - and his shoes. 

 

She helps him do up his shirt and steps closer than she probably needs to. "Don't cause a fuss." She whispers, right into his right ear. They don't usually stand so close. It's an odd sensation to feel his breath on her face. "Don't make any noise, don't ask any dumb questions. We're just going to go and eat and listen. Okay?" 

 

"Okay." He replies, and stares down at her face. He still looks a little bit out of it, eyes slightly glassy, but it's going to have to do. "I'm not always the one that asks dumb questions, though." 

 

"Just... come on." She says, but he's right. 

 

The dining hall has the same kind of rustic feel as the rest of the commune. It looks like it was perhaps formally a barn, but converted into a kind of hall with many trestle tables set up inside. It looks homely. It looks horrible.

 

There are many, many people inside - all dressed in the same kind of simple clothing, with no makeup and long hair tied up out of their faces. Of course, they all gawp at Kristen and Breen when they're first led in - because that's what people are wont to do, even when they're in the middle of a fundamentalist colony that all dress like they're from the 1880s. 

 

"So, we eat three times a day." Charity says, primly, and leads them both to the end of a line (which leads up towards a serving counter). "We do not waste food, and we make sure we always clean our plates. There is punishment for not living a simple life. Is that understood?" 

 

"Yes, sister." Kristen is quick to reply, and Breen echoes her sentiment.

 

"Excellent. Thank you Kristen and Samuel. I will see you tomorrow for breakfast." Charity departs, out the door of the former barn, and starts walking back towards the large main house in the commune. 

 

Soon enough, they're at the start of the line. The kitchen behind the counter doesn't look like it's had any kind of Ministry inspection - which is almost definitely the case - but once again, they have no choice.

 

The server, dressed in the same simple garb, an apron, and a headpiece, just smiles at them and says, "New faces. Wonderful. We are blessed today. Please, enjoy your meals." She slops some kind of meat pie, roast vegetables, and white sauce onto their plates. "Do take a seat with any members of our congregation. I am sure they will welcome you with open arms and full hearts." 

 

"Thank you, sister." Kristen replies, and once again, Breen echoes her sentiments.

 

They don't have to wander around carrying plates for long, an arm comes up at one of the far tables and waves them over. With a shared shrug, the pair head over to join the occupants of the table, because, really, it's not like they have a choice. There doesn't seem to be much opportunity for free choice at all in the commune. 

 

The table has four occupants. There is a short, stocky woman - probably in her early 20s - with brown hair tied in a tight braid, and she's the one who had her arm up. Sitting across from her is a man, also brunette, who has a thick wiry beard. The two other occupants of the table are another couple, she blonde, him dark-haired, who are both willowy and pale. Speaking of - looking around, there doesn't seem to be a lot of diversity race-wise in the place at all. 

"Good evening, sister, brother." The stocky brunette says, and gestures for them to sit. "You are new faces, are you not?" 

 

"Yes, we are new." Kristen replies, and takes a seat. At least, when they're sitting, less people have the ability to stare at them. "Just arrived today, in fact." 

 

"Of course." The woman nods, serenely. "Well, welcome. It is wonderful to see new faces at Heavensedge. Some variety is always nice." 

 

"I bet it is." Breen says, with a sense of false eagerness about him. It's the sort of eagerness he puts on whenever Mike makes him do things he doesn't want to do, but he can't do a thing about it. "So, who are all of you?" 

 

"Oh, of course!" The brunette woman blinks, "I do apologise for my rudeness. It is truly a terrible trait of mine. I'm Catherine, this is Andrew." She gestures across to the man sitting opposite her. "And these are David and Mary." The other two just nod at them, but don't say anything. It is really rather bizarre. 

 

"Cat got their tongues?" Breen asks, same false bravado, but he does seem genuinely confused too. 

 

"Oh, no!" Catherine giggles, "Don't be ridiculous. David and Mary were just caught doing something bad by the Pastor, so he sentenced them to a week of silence for their sin. Andrew's just quiet." 

 

A week of silence? A week of silence? Kristen doesn't even want to know how such a rule came to pass. 

 

"What were your names, then?" 

 

"I'm Kristen." Kristen says, "That's Br- Samuel. He's Samuel." 

 

"Samuel. Of course." Catherine says, placidly. "A good name. You are going to have to change Kristen though - I presume it is spelled with a K?" 

 

"Yes it is." Kristen replies. 

 

"A lot of us changed our names when we came here." Catherine says, and then goes back to her meal. "It was lovely to meet you, but I do need to finish my food now, Andrew and I have something very exciting after this and I must be ready." 

 

"Oh, of course!" Kristen replies, and leaves her to it, though she's got a thousand questions burning inside her. 

 

Name changes? Enforced punishments? They're all big things - but the biggest question she has is - what on earth did Teresa Colburn do to get kicked out from Heavensedge? 

 

The food is surprisingly good but it can't seem to quell the questions burning within Kristen's mind. The whole commune is fascinating, from an ideological standpoint. It'd be fascinating if she were on the outside, looking in, but instead, she's stuck inside the place, likely with an actual murderer. 

 

They need to figure out a way out. 

 

After dinner, they're escorted back to their cottage by Charity, who is as smiley as ever. 

 

It's dark out, now, and the only light that seems to illuminate the commune comes from the cabins and the big house itself. There's no sort of light poking in from the trees, and Kristen can't even see any kind of light pollution poking over them in any direction. It's very, very dark out, and it is STRANGE to behold. 

 

Once they get back to the cabin, Breen drags her outside onto the back porch yet again. He doesn't look happy, and she reckons that's only slightly because of the pain. "I don't like this." He says, and leans into her shoulder. From the outside, it'd probably look like they're just having an intimate conversation. She hopes, at least. "I don't like this at all, Kristen. I'm in so much pain, and just - punishments? Enforced silences? We're tiptoeing around so many rules here and I don't want to know what it's like if we mess things up. Which we will. Because we know nothing about this place. It's like they're just waiting for us to slip up. What happens if we do?" 

 

Breen is hardly ever shy about showcasing his displeasure, but this is a lot, even for him. It feels deep-seated. She's scared too, though she's trying to keep it buried down inside her, but she's not quite as bad as him. 

 

"What's wrong?" She asks. "Tell me. Come on, Sam." 

 

"Everything really hurts and we're trapped in the middle of nowhere with people who seem indoctrinated but probably aren't. I'm trying so hard to look at this objectively, but I just... can't move past how much my chest hurts right now." 

 

"I know." She says, because what else is there for her to say? She's broken and battered too, and as much as she's been forcing it down, it does suck. The circumstances they're in are horrible. They're trapped, against their will, in the middle of nowhere. They've no idea where the police are looking for them, and they've no idea who killed the person that lead them to Heavensedge in the first place. It is far from an ideal situation. But she can't melt down. She's built her entire career on being calm in a crisis and she absolutely needs to keep her wits about her. She grabs for Breen's hand, and gives it a squeeze. It's something solid, for him and for her. "I know. We're going to get out of here. We just need to soldier on - or whatever that Codrul ad says." 

 

"I can't believe we're stuck in some damn commune and you're quoting terrible ads to me." He says, but he squeezes back. 

 

For now, it's enough.

**Author's Note:**

> hit me up on the [ tumblr ](http://villainousfilmmaker.tumblr.com)


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